


Adding to His Pile of Good Things

by skywriter123



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asexual Sherlock, Awesome, BAMF!Lestrade, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, BBC is a destroyer of souls, Child Abuse, Childhood, Doctor Who References, Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is Sherlock's Son, M/M, Original Character(s), Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywriter123/pseuds/skywriter123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes first had sex -once he was pressured into it- when he was drunk, tired, and sixteen. He was positive Jennifer Watson had an abortion, like their parents dictated. When Jennifer is apprehended for murder, the truth comes out and Sherlock is left to deal with an eleven year-old John Watson. Although, this is similar to my inspiration "No Intention", I assure you it is not the same. It will pan out very differently, considering that it takes place at a different time. And I have plenty of ideas on what Hell to cause Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introducing John Hamish Watson

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [No Intention](https://archiveofourown.org/works/528099) by [KeelieThompson1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeelieThompson1/pseuds/KeelieThompson1). 



> Alright, my first Sherlock fanfiction. I’m trying to hold on until season 3… but it’s hard. The title, if you are a Whovian, is from Vincent and the Doctor, the second episode of Doctor Who I had ever seen, three years after my first Doctor Who experience (Blink in sixth grade). I have read only one fanfiction with Sherlock actually being John’s father and it was amazing. If anyone else knows of any besides “No Intention” then please let me know. This will most likely have a healthy dash or two of my second favorite ship, Mystrade, but as of now, nothing is official. Sherlock will not get into a relationship with anyone, excluding the mentions of Jennifer Watson (who belongs to me as an OC). Everyone you recognize belongs to the monsters known as Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Who is everyone’s favorite character in Sherlock? Mine is… that’s difficult. Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty, Lestrade… Basically all of them. It’s so hard to choose! They’re all amazingly developed. And what are your favorite ships for this fandom? Mine are Johnlock and Mystrade. And on a side note, Sherlock is about 28 and John is 11. I know I got the ages wrong, but it does take place in 2010. John may seem OOC at first, but this has implications of child abuse and strong resentment between himself and his mother. Normally he is easy-going, but he feels his mother betrayed his trust and he won’t let her get close again.   
> I’ll shut up and write now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Alright, my first Sherlock fanfiction. I’m trying to hold on until season 3… but it’s hard. The title, if you are a Whovian, is from Vincent and the Doctor, the second episode of Doctor Who I had ever seen, three years after my first Doctor Who experience (Blink in sixth grade). I have read only one fanfiction with Sherlock actually being John’s father and it was amazing. If anyone else knows of any besides “No Intention” then please let me know. This will most likely have a healthy dash or two of my second favorite ship, Mystrade, but as of now, nothing is official. Sherlock will not get into a relationship with anyone, excluding the mentions of Jennifer Watson (who belongs to me as an OC). Everyone you recognize belongs to the monsters known as Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Who is everyone’s favorite character in Sherlock? Mine is… that’s difficult. Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty, Lestrade… Basically all of them. It’s so hard to choose! They’re all amazingly developed. And what are your favorite ships for this fandom? Mine are Johnlock and Mystrade. And on a side note, Sherlock is about 31 and John is 13. I know I got the ages wrong, but it does take place in 2010. John may seem OOC at first, but this has implications of child abuse and strong resentment between himself and his mother. Normally he is easy-going, but he feels his mother betrayed his trust and he won’t let her get close again.  
> I’ll shut up and write now.
> 
> NOTE: THIS IS REWRITTEN GUYS

Chapter 1 – Introducing John Hamish Watson  
Something of importance has come up. Call me immediately. –MH  
Sherlock Holmes read the latest text from his insufferable older brother and snorted derisively, propping his bare feet up on the leather couch in his flat.  
What, Mycroft? I’m busy. – SH  
Sherlock sent back impatiently, then immediately checked his phone yet again for a text from Detective Inspector Lestrade. He was dying for a case, something to get his mind off the absolute dullness of the world, himself excluded, of course.  
Sherlock’s mobile rang momentarily and lazily raised it to his ear, correctly predicting the words about to come from Mycroft’s mouth.

“What part of call me immediately, do you not understand, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s exasperated tone sounded from the tiny speakers.  
“Since when do I take orders from you, Mycroft?” Sherlock said loftily, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.  
“Sherlock, I haven’t the time for your childishness. Meet me at the Scotland Yard. I have news about a certain, Jennifer Watson that involves you.”  
“Jennifer Watson…”  
“You know exactly who she is Sherlock, I know you haven’t deleted it.” Mycroft said shortly. “Scotland Yard. It’s urgent.” He hang up and Sherlock lowered the mobile, swearing under his breath.  
Cursing his dratted brother for the umpteenth time, Sherlock threw on his long coat (it was a wet, freezing day, even for May) and looped his customary blue scarf around his neck, thundering down the rickety stairs at an alarming rate.  
“Taxi!” He called, waving over an approaching cab.  
As he settled back into the shoddy seats of the ancient cab he wondered what the hell Jennifer Watson was up to. She had been his first dealer, back when he was only seventeen and desperate. He had no choice but to have (rather unpleasant) coitus with her as payment. Mycroft had found the cocaine hidden in the loose brick in his fireplace and trashed it, removing his allowance for the time being, and shortly thereafter forced him into rehab for the second (and not the last) time. He had been in college at the time and Sherlock had no choice. Jennifer Watson disappeared, as if wiped from the face of the Earth. Why he needed to involve himself in her affairs once again, Sherlock wasn’t positive. His main theory was that she had been back to dealing, gotten caught and had information on a bigger dealer he needed to find. It hadn’t been the first time something like this had happened. He sighed and rested his arm against the door, long, elegant fingers on his left hand absentmindedly tapping out the notes to a song on the door’s handle, as if it was the neck of his beloved Stradivarius.  
Once the cab stopped at the Scotland Yard, Sherlock was escorted by, much to his disdain, Anderson to a holding cell. Mycroft stood inside, in front of a woman sitting dejectedly on a cold metal chair, his ridiculous umbrella supporting him like a cane.  
“What is it?” He snapped impatiently.  
“Jennifer Watson-“ Mycroft pointed the umbrella to the aforementioned woman who looked up with a glare. “-is currently being charged with first degree murder… in Florida, US.” Sherlock nodded.  
He was fully aware of the death penalty, having ensured an acquaintance’s (if you could call Mrs. Hudson that) husband’s execution.  
“Capital punishment?”  
“Most likely, when the trial occurs.” Mycroft said, a thinly veiled smirk on his face, pleased to no end by his omnipotence.  
“What has this got to do with me?” Sherlock asked, glancing around the bare cell. He had already decided long ago that he had nothing to do with Jennifer Watson anymore, especially if the facts showed her as a murderer. He had soon located another dealer.  
“Once moved from her previous holding cell, she asked Gregory-“  
“Who?” Sherlock interrupted. Mycroft fixed the consulting detective with a glare.  
“Lestrade, to fetch her son from school as a chance to say goodbye, this being the last chance she will see him before her court date in the States,-“ He paused to give the next words more effect. “-and eventual punishment.”  
“Are you the jury?” Jennifer snapped at him, eyebrows furrowed and brown eyes narrowed.  
“I may as well be. It’s all rather transparent, I’m afraid.” Mycroft silenced her with an offhand remark before turning back to his brother.  
“And?” Sherlock asked with a raised brow. Mycroft’s phone dinged softly and he quickly glanced at the screen.

“I have just received a text from Greg saying they are here, so we should wrap this up.  
Her son,-“ He jerked his head towards Jennifer. “John Watson, has been staying in foster care since she was first apprehended two months ago. He will need a place to stay. Jennifer’s long string of lovers have proved to be irresponsible and unwilling caretakers for the boy. Interestingly enough, social services required a birth certificate for the child. Here”  
Mycroft held out an official-looking paper.  
Sherlock took it and scanned the contents quickly, barely managing to restrain his gasp of surprise (just to prevent looking at Mycroft’s smug grimace of self-satisfaction), but it was a close call.

Name: John Hamish Watson  
DOB: 5/17/1996  
Mother: Jennifer Elisabeth Watson  
Father: Sherlock Holmes  
Current Residence: Jameson Foster Home, 40 Pinckney Street, Westminster  
“What?!” Sherlock snarled after he quickly scanned the certificate and committed it to memory.  
“Mum?” A young voice queried from the doorway. Sherlock spun around, disconcerted.  
A short boy with cropped blond hair, inquisitive blue eyes (with a sparkle of Holmes intelligence, perhaps?) one marred by a large violet bruise underneath, and a slightly round face that had lesser cheekbones than Sherlock’s own, but they were prominent nonetheless.  
He had an Ace bandage on his right wrist and cradled it to his chest unconsciously.  
The teenager walked into the room, eyes darting from Sherlock to Mycroft to Jennifer.  
“John,” Jennifer said softly.  
“Mum…” John said slowly, glancing at her once again, taking in the ragged appearance. “I see the tan’s faded.”  
Lestrade followed the boy in and offered a nod of acknowledgement towards the other occupants of the room.  
“John, I’m sorry… I should’ve known about Derek…” Jennifer said soothingly.  
The boy’s eyes took on a dark, secretive look and he took a step back, setting his jaw -not to be defiant -Sherlock noted- but to hide the trembling and sending a sharp glare in his mother’s direction that mirrored Sherlock’s own.  
“Just Derek?” John asked calmly, but coldly. The implications sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine, making him wonder who the hell Derek was and what he did to his son. To the child, he corrected himself without speaking aloud.

“Well, you asked for the others-“ Jennifer clapped a hand over her mouth, paling. “John I didn’t mean-“ She started to explain frantically.  
“Why would you say it otherwise? Obviously, no matter how unconsciously, you do believe it.” John’s voice cracked, and he bit his lip, before spinning on his heel.  
“Enjoy court then, mother.” The boy spat scathingly, looking over his shoulder. “Glad to know you have just enough morality to realize just Derek did wrong. Even though I will miss all the nights hanging out with bouncers, I think it’ll do you good to get some justice for once.” The sarcasm stung Jennifer and made her freeze in the chair, her apologies ceasing.  
John’s cold tone of voice sent shivers down each of their spines and Lestrade’s eyes widened behind his back.  
Sherlock had been looking for (unconsciously of course) more similarities between John and himself and was surprised to find his own temper and slight bipolarity amongst other things.  
John paled, clearly replaying what he had just said what he had just snarled, but it was too late. “I apologize Mum, but… I-I can’t… I can’t… I…I can’t…” The teenager’s voice cracked and he clenched his uninjured hand tight into a fist.  
“Detective Inspector,” John cleared his throat. “-can I go? Please? I have nothing to say and I would rather catch a cab before dark.”  
“You want me to get a cab? Need cash?” Lestrade placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, feeling guilty when the boy flinched, no matter how hard John tried to hide it. He took the opportunity to guide him out of the tense atmosphere of the cell. Sherlock followed, wanting to speak with John, to learn the meaning behind his words, to understand who Derek was and what he did and why John’s shoulders curled in on themselves whenever an adult got close. Sherlock craved the answers and wasn’t going to allow John to just leave if he didn’t have the required data.  
“Nah, it’s okay. I pocketed that guy Anderson’s wallet. He was annoying me.” Sherlock felt a strong sense of pride welling up inside him. He saw the teen glance at him over his shoulder and Sherlock couldn’t resist giving him a full-on grin. John returned it with a smaller, far more hesitant smile of his own.

“Lestrade, I’ll walk him out.” John’s head snapped right back so fast it cracked. The boy winced and rubbed it gingerly, turning his body to face Sherlock questioningly.  
Sherlock resisted the urge to chuckle. Lestrade nodded, but pulled the boy away for a short, whispered conversation.  
“Call me if you get into trouble, all right lad?” Lestrade handed John a business card. John took it and tucked it into Anderson’s wallet with a mischievous grin. Lestrade laughed and gave him a wink (even he was annoyed by Anderson, though he wasn’t as vocal about it as Sherlock) before steering John back over to Sherlock, who led him the rest of the way out of the station, John carefully ignoring Anderson and Sally’s sneers, Sherlock returning them with one of his own.

Once they were outside, Sherlock turned to face John, who, to his credit, only took one miniscule step backwards.  
“Are you going to be okay catching a cab by yourself?” John jerked back, glancing around nervously.  
“Why do you care?” The short teen asked defensively. “Who the hell are you?”  
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes. I was an acquaintance of your mother’s from about twelve years ago.”  
“Acquaintance? Was she your… y’know…” Great, she had told the boy, what an exemplary parent. Sherlock thought sarcastically.  
Sherlock looked at John, interest building. “It is no longer an issue.” John rolled his eyes.  
“ Naturally. Why were you here?”  
“I shall tell you tomorrow.” Sherlock said vaguely, waving down a cab.  
“Tomorrow?”  
“Apparently.”  
And with that, Sherlock stepped into the cab, barked an address to the cabbie and was off, something nagging him that it wasn’t the wisest to leave a small child (if you could call him that) alone on a main road to hail a cab alone, but he ignored it. In fact, he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts about Jennifer in his mind to care much about anything else. She had told him about being a dealer, and God knows what else she had corrupted him with.  
When will you tell John? – MH  
Sherlock’s phone dinged and he groaned, irritated by Mycroft’s persistence. Especially when he was asking Sherlock questions he himself didn’t know the answer to.  
Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be able to parent a thirteen year old, but he was more than hesitant in letting the teenager get bussed around by the foster system. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all his own son.  
But what to tell John? Sherlock wasn’t good with social matters, especially matters of a familial kind. He hadn’t spoken to his mother or step-father since Christmas and hadn’t seen his father since he was ten. Once the cab stopped, he paid the fare absentmindedly and let himself into his dingy flat. Cups of cold tea were everywhere and experiments crowded every available surface. Sherlock flopped onto the couch, sticking three nicotine patches onto his left arm.  
Mind Palace it was then. He closed his eyes, feeling the patches beginning to sink in. Picturing John he began to do what he did best, deducing every detail he could.  
John- Appearance:  
Bruise under left eye- large, too large to be from a fellow classmate, caused by a… right hand, ring on ring finger. Male. Most likely married. Fresh, formed within the past two days.  
Injured right wrist- Ace bandaged, sloppily. Self-administered. Too severe for just an Ace bandaged so a hidden injury. Unlikely that it’s broken, but a sprain severe enough to still be hurting. John wasn’t fazed by it, so he has been injured a lot and dealt with it himself.  
Short hair, cropped, blond. Inherited it from his mother, cropped to be less cumbersome, but not a buzz-cut. Military style, unevenly cut, so cut by himself. Perhaps he aspires to be part of the military.  
Eyes- weary, cautious, observant. Clearly intelligent. (Obviously, he’s my son) Sherlock thought, surprising himself.  
John- behavior:  
Flinches- Flinched when Lestrade touched him, cautious around Mycroft and myself along with Lestrade- wary of men- makes abuser more likely to be male  
Coldness- Once Jennifer slipped up, became cold as ice- trust broken  
Speech- Generally quiet, well-spoken, not a vast amount of euphemisms  
Jaw clenched to prevent visible trembling- hides fear, pain (possibly sadness?)  
Weary of adults. Most likely abused by one, a man… Possibly by one (or many) of Jennifer’s various lovers. Neglect, passive abuse (possibly) from Jennifer.  
Pick-pocketed Anderson with a proper excuse. Ten points.  
John- Summary  
Most likely physically abused by a currently unknown adult and neglected by Jennifer Watson. Quiet, in control of his emotions, intelligent. His intelligence is wasted the way it is currently being used. Pick-pocket, but a good one. Generally strong sense of morality, considering that he didn’t argue his mother’s case. Knows she is guilty—intelligent, but seemed slightly upset. Joked with Lestrade, must be a coping mechanism.

Sherlock opened his eyes after profiling his son and rubbed a hand across his forehead.  
He knew that he had an obligation to his newfound son and he found he didn’t completely despise the thought of John sitting on the couch, reading, eating at the kitchen table (well, takeaway), and doing his homework at the table. Sherlock shook his head. What was he thinking? He couldn’t father a child.  
No, it was impossible. But still…

On the other side of London, John Hamish Watson sat quietly in a cab, letting his thoughts distract him from the journey, face pressed against the cool window.  
If the cabbie thought it odd that a thirteen year-old hailed a cab and paid alone, he didn’t comment, leaving the boy to his thoughts. It wasn’t as if John hadn’t done this millions of times before.  
John kept thinking about that strange man, that mysterious Sherlock Holmes.  
He knows something important. Something involving me… He used to be a druggie but apparently stopped. He didn’t look like he was going through withdrawal, nor was he high. Couldn’t see if he was lying or not, no visible tell. He thought, idly scratching the back of his neck.  
As the foster home came into sight, John took deep breaths, trying to brace himself for the oncoming storm of questions and the inevitable slap he would get from the stern Mr. Meyers: he was out past curfew and there was no place for excuses.  
John wasn’t looking forward to that whatsoever, but he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.  
He figured that, after his mother was sent guilty from a courthouse (as that odd man with the umbrella seemed convinced she would) he’d be thrown from place to place and all he wanted was to be taken away from this damn house and mean people.  
John settled back on his creaky bed, ignoring the snores of the other boys. He wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow at school. If Jenson Bradley found out that his mother was in jail there’d be an arse kicking of a lifetime waiting for him.  
Besides, John thought as he snuggled underneath the cheap duvet. They’re gonna find out sooner or later. At least I’ll figure out what the hell’s up with Sherlock Holmes and why he was called to the Yard because of Mum. He looks familiar though, I don’t know why…  
John dug through his memory, trying to place where he remembered him from. Then, it hit him like a pile of bricks.  
“It was him! He was the guy called at the school shooting last year! Lestrade too!” He whispered to himself, happy to finally figure it out. It had been bothering him and he couldn’t have slept without knowing.  
His curiosity temporarily sated, John settled down and allowed the soft tendrils of sleep to lull him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:  
> Jesus, this was a long one! Hope you enjoyed, and please rate and review it. Vote, do whatever it’s called and comment!!! Expect an update soon enough.  
> -CM


	2. Hospital Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright then, sorry I made a mistake involving the dates. A big one. NOW, A Study in Pink takes place in 2010, not 2012 (sorry, haven’t been to school since Friday – man, I love this blizzard- so my mind’s suffering from a bit of atrophy [lack of growth from disuse]. Hence the date mix up). As of officially NOW, the story will take place in 2010. This means that, in order for John to be eleven and Sherlock to have been 16 (adding 9 months for the pregnancy) when John was conceived, John was born on April 3, 1999. Not 2002.   
> I am unsure of how old Sherlock is in BBC’s Sherlock, but I do know I am making him a considerable bit younger. Again all the character’s you recognize belong to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and I suppose, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. (You think Moffat is bad, the original readers had to wait like 10 years to find out how Sherlock lives. We have waited a year. That should make it easier to bear, my fellow Sherlockians)   
> Now, I shall silence my mouth and write.

“Name?” The paramedic snapped, impatient that the child was kicking up such a fuss.  
“Uhh, Mason Roberts.” The boy moaned, blood still pouring from his left nostril.  
“Your, real name?” The paramedic, a man by the name of Dean Castle, snarled at the annoying boy. Couldn’t he see that he, Dean was trying to help him? He had no patience.  
The boy hesitated again and his eyes rolled back into his head as he passed out. Dean cursed, poking the boy’s cheek. The boy flinched away and Dean shook him.  
“You little liar, tell me your damn name!” The injured boy jerked away violently, shielding his head with an Ace bandaged wrist. 

“Dean!” An older, more experienced paramedic growled, pulling the annoyed man away from the small boy.  
“What?” The older man shook his head. Mark Stevens knew this boy’s type, the type to lie about their name and flinch from any touch.  
“We need to get him to Saint Bart’s.” He rolled the boy onto a stretcher, careful not to jostle his injured wrist or the damage to his back and sides. The boy actually did pass out this time, exhaustion taking over. Mark allowed Dean to help move the stretcher into the ambulance but warned him to stay up front and not to bother the boy.

“You’ve done enough already. Be patient.” Dean rolled his eyes behind Mark’s back. He got sick of Mark’s “condescension”. Mark quietly worked, pressing a cloth to the boy’s bloody nose and using a towel to clean up some of the welts across the boy’s back and torso.  
The boy stirred, pulling out of his stunned panic and Mark placed a reassuring hand on his uninjured arm. The boy whimpered and tried to pull away.  
“Hey, easy now, lad. Calm down. It’s all okay, we’re getting you some help right now.” Mark soothed, allowing the boy to see his hands.  
“I don’ wanna go to a hospital. I’m fine. Lemme go!” The boy whispered hoarsely.  
“No, none of that. Now, what’s your name?” The boy’s eyes went wide and he tried to wiggle back.  
“No, it’s okay. Calm down. We just need your name so the hospital can find your parents.” The boy shook his head.  
“Don’t know me da. Me mum is in prison.” The boy’s voice reverted back to what appeared to be the remnants of an accent due to exhaustion, pain, and fear. If Mark was surprised, he hid it well from the boy, eyes widening barely a fraction of an inch.  
“Who’s been caring for you?”  
“No one. Livin’ in a home, but here.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a surprisingly adult leather wallet. He removed a business card and handed it to Mark with shaking fingers. The paramedic read it:  
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard  
There was a number underneath and he shouted to Dean.  
“Dean, call this man. Get him to Saint Bart’s.”   
“I’ll need a name.” Dean said back, snatching the outstretched business card.  
“What’s your name? We need to know so Greg Lestrade can be allowed in your hospital room.” Mark asked softly. The boy seemed to fight a severe battle inside himself before he hesitantly answered.  
“John. John Watson.”   
“Dean, give me the phone.” Mark ordered.   
“It’s on a cord, remember?” Dean snapped back. Mark stood slowly, sending a reassuring glance to John. He grabbed the phone from Dean’s outstretched hand and put it up to his ear.  
“DI Lestrade speaking.”   
“Detective Inspector, this is Mark Stevens, paramedic. I have this boy, John Watson, said he knows you. Was a fight to get him to even give his name, much less this number. I don’t know why he has it, but he says you’re the only one that can help, said he doesn’t know his dad and his mum’s in prison.” All this came out very fast, despite Mark’s normally calm demeanor. He could hear Lestrade breathe a sigh of relief before he spoke.  
“Which hospital are you taking him to? I have a friend that needs to see him and some other colleagues that have been searching.”   
“Saint Bart’s. ETA is five minutes minimum.” He could hear Lestrade on the other end of the phone, barking orders.  
“Chances are we’ll beat you there. Thank you. Evening.” The DI hung up, leaving a flummoxed paramedic on the other end of the line.  
“DI Lestrade is on his way to the hospital, apparently with some colleagues.” Mark made his way back over to John. The boy nodded, jabbing at his side and wincing.  
“Usually if you touch a wound it’ll hurt.” The paramedic said softly, giving a crooked smile.  
John glanced up, blushing a little.  
“Right, sorry.” Mark frowned a little, wondering why the hell the kid was apologizing.   
“It’s nothing to apologize for. We’ll be at the hospital soon, they’ll get you patched up some more there.” John nodded again and fixed his gaze to the ceiling of the ambulance. His head jostled as they hit a speed bump turning into the hospital lot. He moaned, this irritating his already pounding head.   
The next few minutes were a blur as he was transferred from the back of the ambulance, through the hospital, all the way to the fourth floor, in a private exam room. John looked dazedly around, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. People rushed around, trying to get him settled atop an exam table so he could be patched up. Too many people and John was trying to restrain his panic. Men and women in white coats passed around with clipboards, barely acknowledging John. Some bent slightly to get a closer look at John’s face. Those ones talked loudly and slowly to him, as if he was stupid. They began to get into John’s space, talking loudly, and it all began to blur into a loud buzz of mixed voices and bright, blaring white light. John tried to back away and pressed against the wall the exam table was pushed up against.   
“No,” He began to whisper quietly. “No, leave me alone.” The doctors and nurses heeded him no mind, not listening to a word he said. John’s desperation began to grow, and he began to wonder where on Earth Lestrade was.  
John never depended on anyone but himself and his mother, and even so his trust in his mother was broken. His head felt like someone was taking a jackhammer to his frontal lobe and he was half aware of the quiet whimpers his mouth was making. John reached a sweaty, shaking hand to cover his mouth and curled into himself.

“EVERYONE SHUT UP!” A slightly familiar voice barked over the drone of sound and light. Instantly there was silence and John hesitantly peeked his head up from his kneecaps. Standing in the now less crowded room and dimmed light were three tall figures that he recognized, though was not extremely familiar with. Still, they were a sight for John’s sore eyes.  
“Thank you, Sherlock.” Lestrade said to the tall man wrapped in a long black coat. Sherlock nodded, pulling a pill bottle from his pocket.  
“Here,” He said quietly. John recognized the bottle as a pain reliever and took it graciously.  
“Sherlock, you shouldn’t give him drugs.” Lestrade sounded exasperated as John popped two capsules into his mouth. The third man from the day before (he didn’t know his name) handed him a paper cup of water. John accepted it warily and examined the clear liquid before taking a long gulp.  
“Thank you,” He said quietly, handing the pill bottle back to Sherlock.  
“Why are you here?” He asked softly, directing the question at Sherlock.  
“I-“ Sherlock stumbled upon what to say, and the other man interrupted.  
“John Watson. I am Mycroft Holmes. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” The man held out a large, if slightly pudgy hand for John to shake. John reached a hand out hesitantly, fingers trembling slightly as he shook Mycroft’s hand.   
“Nice to see you again, lad.” Lestrade said jovially enough, but John could see his eyes crinkle in worry as he looked over John’s injuries.  
“Incompetent medical staff,” Sherlock scoffed as if following Lestrade’s train of thought.   
Sherlock crouched in front of John and raised a hand to John’s chin. John tried and failed to restrain his flinch, his gaze never leaving Sherlock’s pale, long-fingered hands. Sherlock placed a hand on John’s trembling chin (John going cross-eyed trying to watch each slow movement of the fingers), tilting his head back and forth, examining the bruising on John’s cheeks. His brows furrowed and a look of fury overcame his pale face. John, spotting this, jerked away from Sherlock, pressing against the wall again.  
Sherlock stood to his full height and growled darkly:  
“Who?”   
“Sherlock,” Lestrade said in a warning tone. “Leave it for now. Calm down, now.” Lestrade fixed him with a look.   
Sherlock swore, kicking a chair before storming out of the exam room.  
“I apologize for my brother. He’ll just need a minute to cool down.” Mycroft said, but even his calm demeanor looked more than forced. He fiddled with his umbrella like it was a cane, tapping it idly on the ground.  
“Now, John. Who did this to you?”   
“Fell.” John said quickly. Too quickly. The boy was lying, obviously.  
“That’s your excuse?” Mycroft raised a brow.   
“It’s true, I fell.”  
“I don’t doubt that you fell, but I doubt that there was no one else involved.” The elder Holmes could practically see the gears whirring in the boy’s mind, trying to concoct a plausible story.  
“The truth, perhaps?” He suggested jovially enough, but with a clearly demanding undertone.  
“I-I was in a fight. With some older kids at school.”  
“Right.” Mycroft said in a tone that plainly stated he didn’t believe him. The color began to drain from John’s face and his breathing grew shallow as he began to press further against the cold wall.  
“Mycroft.” Lestrade’s tone was less warning than his with Sherlock, but the meaning was clear. He pulled Mycroft away from John and hissed into his ear.  
“Back off, just for now. You’ll only scare him off.” Mycroft nodded and turned to face John.  
“I’d say it’s about time you get treated by someone other than an idiot.” Mycroft pulled out his mobile and made a short call and soon enough, a doctor with short brown hair arrived in the room, a smile lines etched into his round face.  
“Evening sir,” He shook both Lestrade and Mycroft’s hands. Sherlock came storming in once again, irritated, glaring around the entire room.  
“Who are you?” He shot at the new doctor.  
“My name is Andrew Jacobs and my temporary assistant Jim should be here soon…” Just then a man with short black hair and a timid smile on his face appeared in the doorway.  
“Hi,” Was all he said, adjusting his lab coat, tucking a mobile into his pocket.  
“I need you to check this young man’s temp, blood pressure, you know the drill. I’ll try to clean up the wounds.” Doctor Jacobs glanced up at Lestrade, Sherlock and Mycroft.  
“Are all of you staying?” The trio looked at each other and Sherlock nodded. Seeing John’s eyes widen, Lestrade nodded as well. Mycroft nodded too, hesitantly and pulled his mobile out again, sending a text to an unknown number. Probably telling Anthea to background check Jim. Lestrade thought, though he did agree with the idea.  
“What’s your name?” Jacobs asked John.  
“John Watson.” He replied softly, glancing at Assistant Jim’s hands as they busied around him, looping a blood pressure cuff around his skinny arm. Sherlock’s eyes never left the two medical men around his son, watching their hands, ready to jump into action at the slightest provocation.   
“Alright John. I’m gonna need you to lie on your stomach with your shirt off. Can you do that?” The doctor’s tone was calm enough, but John still felt the edges of panic clawing at him. He glanced over at the three men standing against the wall, then back to the doctor. To Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade and back to the doctor again. He hesitantly pulled at the hem of his shirt, then looked back at the doctor.  
“We need to be able to see your wounds.” John nodded slightly, and pulled the gray t-shirt off, wincing as some dried blood and just scabbing skin was pulled along with it. Welts covered the thin, almost emaciated chest and back, covering up long, white scars and dozens of purpling bruises. Sherlock growled but stayed in the room this time, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. Lestrade growled as well, fury building inside.   
Who the hell would do this? Why?  
The three watched dumbly as Doctor Jacobs cleaned the boy’s welts, inwardly wincing as John whimpered when the antiseptic was dabbed on. He held up pretty strong, for a boy who had turned eleven a little under a month ago, wriggling away from the sting.   
“Alright, I’m almost done. Jim, check his temp.” Jim popped a thermometer in the boy’s mouth, and John jerked back, grabbing the end of it so he could hold it under his tongue himself, rather than having Jim hover over him, hand right in front of his face.   
The thermometer beeped after a minute or so and John relinquished his grip, pulling it out of his mouth. Jim checked it and whistled.  
“Damn, forty point five.” (105 degrees F)  
“We need something to reduce his fever. Have you given him anything already?” Jacobs asked.  
“Pain reliever.” Lestrade gestured for Sherlock to hand him the medicine he gave John, examining the label.  
“Not a fever reducing one though.” The doctor nodded and gestured to Jim. Jim left the exam room in search of the proper medicine as Doctor Jacobs began to wrap bandages around John’s torso and chest.   
Soon enough, Jim returned with the proper medicine, handed it to John and whispered something in Jacobs’ ear before leaving the room once again.   
“Now, we should get John settled into a room for the night. We’ll want to change the bandages once more before he goes to sleep but he should be okay in the morning. Luckily, only a few need stitches, but we can take care of that in the morning. He should be discharged tomorrow afternoon, before lunch. Jim has got a room set up for him on the floor above us. Sherlock turned to look at John, only to see him fast asleep on the exam table, using the start of the roll of exam table paper as a pillow. The harsh lines of anger in Sherlock’s face unconsciously softened at the sight of John curled up in a little ball, fast asleep.   
“I’ll take him up. What room?” Sherlock said, scooping John up like he weighed nothing (which wasn’t that far off) and cradling him to his chest, ignoring the stunned look on Lestrade’s face.   
“Room 5c” Jacobs said. Sherlock stalked off with Greg and Mycroft following.   
Once they arrived in the pristine, uniform hospital room, Sherlock carefully placed the slumbering John on the narrow hospital bed, sitting on the end of the bed himself.  
“Shut up, Mycroft.” He said before Mycroft could even open his mouth to spill a syllable.   
“I wasn’t going to say anything, dear brother mine.” Sherlock scowled and looked back over to John.  
“He called you.” He said quietly to Lestrade.  
“I think it was cause he still had my card in Anderson’s wallet. He was clever enough to keep it on him.” Sherlock nodded, hearing, but barely listening. His hand hovered over John’s forehead, hesitating on whether or not to actually touch his son’s forehead, to card his fingers through the boy’s hair. He glanced around and pulled his hand away without touching John.  
“When will he wake?” He asked Doctor Jacobs, who had slipped into the room silently.   
“Soon enough. He passed out from exhaustion, not exactly the deepest sleep. Paramedic said they had to fight with him to get him to even say his real name. You know why that happened?” Sherlock nodded but didn’t elaborate.  
“No,” Lestrade said. “Why did he, Sherlock?” Sherlock gave the doctor a pointed glare, and Jacobs, getting the point, left.   
“He lied because that is what he will do to avoid attention, and to avoid attracting the attention of whoever did that to him. He doesn’t want his real name splattered all over the place, for the attacker to be able to find out. He’s clever, he is street smart. Clever in general. He’s clever enough to know that anyone, with the proper credentials, real or not, can find out something if they put on a clever enough act.” Sherlock smiled down at the boy and Lestrade had to remind himself that Sherlock was happy with the cleverness of his son, not the fact that anyone can find files in a hospital.   
As if he knew they were talking about him, John stirred with a little groan. Quick as a whip, Sherlock was off the edge of the bed and on his feet.  
“John,” He said quietly, crouching beside the bed so he was eye-level with the small boy.  
“Sherlock? Why are you still here?” John asked, confused.  
“I told you we’d talk today, I just thought it would be under different circumstances. You have questions about me?” John nodded, seeming surprised that he didn’t go back on his word.  
“Why were you there, at the holding cell with my mum?” Right to the point then.  
“Like I said, I was an acquaintance of your mother’s before you were born. Right before you were born.” John nodded. Sherlock looked uncomfortable, unsure of what to say at first.  
“Well, I was 17, she was 16 and we were friends of a sort. We had spent a night drinking stolen liquor and well, she suggested it. Err, do you know how babies are made?”  
John gave him a look that said “do I look stupid?” and then realization hit him like a ton of bricks.  
“You?” He asked quietly. Sherlock nodded.  
“I will not parent you. I will not nag about your schoolwork, go to parents’ nights, and offer advice about relationships and such social commodities. However, despite my usual aversion to children, I don’t want you bussed around in the foster system. So, I propose this. Flatmates?” John’s little brow furrowed as he thought it over, clearly debating it.  
“Why? You don’t like kids, so why?”  
Sherlock paused.  
“You’re… usable. ” Lestrade winced at the word. This certainly didn’t sound like it would pan out well for him.  
“Useable. Okay.-“ The boy’s voice was flat, before he shook his head and spoke again.  
“ Sure, let’s be flatmates.” John smiled hesitantly at Sherlock before the smile vanished and John’s head dropped down again.  
“Get some sleep John. We’ll all talk tomorrow.” Lestrade said, stepping in. John nodded and fixed the bed to his preferences; tilted the pillows and nested underneath the starched sheets, curling tight into a ball. He looked nervously up at the men who seemed to understand and exited the room silently, flicking the light off. Sherlock glanced back, seeing the boy freeze as the light was clicked fully off. He turned it back on and pulled the dimmer switch down so there was a light glow rather than complete darkness.  
Sherlock looked at his son again, who whispered thanks and huddled back into the bed. He seemed even more delicate now that the boy’s fear was revealed. With the boy’s past he could hardly begrudge him a simple, childhood fear (not to mention the fact that he had the same aversion when he was a child). Sherlock noted that he should get a nightlight for the flat. He thought back to the facts he hadn’t yet deleted from his childhood. His bee had helped. His giant stuffed bee.   
Mycroft seemed to have beaten him to that thought as he stepped back inside, holding another, very familiar stuffed animal. When Sherlock had his bee, Mycroft had a plushy red panda toy. Sherlock remembered Mycroft arguing with anyone who said it was a raccoon. At one point, when he was six, he had taken one of his classmates to the zoo, dragged him to the red panda exhibit and pointed out every detail on the toy compared to the real animal. Sherlock was barely a toddler at that point, but he did remember that. That day was the first time he had seen Mycroft’s look of smug satisfaction.  
Mycroft quietly crossed the room and placed the red panda in John’s little arms, smiling when the boy immediately clutched it to his chest, burying his nose in its fake fur.  
“We will come back in the morning.” Mycroft said as he returned to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock raised a brow at his demanding tone, but nodded and all three of the men left the boy alone to cuddle his new (and only) stuffed animal in a deep, calm sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Alright, yet another long chapter. Man, I am loving writing this fanfic! It comes very naturally to me. When I sat down to write, I had no clue the first part would be in an ambulance. Thanks for reading. Rate, review/ vote, comment, do whatever you can to give me feedback! Did you guys like it?  
> CM


	3. Chapter 3 - Lunch With Lestrade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like writing this specific fanfiction. No clue why. Maybe it’s because it’s so fun to mess around with a young John and some very awkward moments with Sherlock, Lestrade and Mycroft. I really think this type of fanfiction should be made more (not necessarily that John is biologically Sherlock’s son, but with Sherlock as a more fatherly figure), but that’s just my opinion. And last change with dates! NOW, takes place before A Study in Pink. 1 year before, so 2009. NOW IMPORTANT! JOHN WILL IS ELEVEN YEARS OLD, NOT TEN. And go back a re-read or skim chapter 1. Jennifer is now being tried for murder in Florida and is going the way Mrs. Hudson’s husband did. Capital punishment, because I’m like that. And evil.  
>  Once again, any characters you recognize belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter 3 – Lunch With Lestrade  
Once the trio left the hospital room, they looked at each other, unsure of what to say.   
“Jesus, Sherlock. Who do you think got him?”  
“I don’t think anything.” Sherlock snapped irritably.   
“I know it was an adult male, married and with a strong backhand. That was from yesterday. Today’s attacker is different. No mark from a ring. Bruises on John’s wrists and forearms, means he was dragged, given the state of the heels of his shoes.” He gestured through the doorway to the battered Converse next to the bed.   
“He had a headache that was heightened by the incompetency of the hospital staff, and a large bruise on the back of the head. He fell backwards, hard. According to his charts he has a concussion, which backs that up.” Greg was impressed. He hadn’t seen Sherlock even flip through the clipboard.   
“The newest welts were caused by a belt. Plain leather, not decretive whatsoever. There was also a shallow knife wound, possibly from a penknife. No signs of self-harm besides crescents where his nails dug into his own flesh. The bruises on his arms are defensive- he held them in front of his head and face. He-“  
“Stop Sherlock,” Greg almost cried out. The color had drained from his face and he was looking disturbed.   
“Lestrade, surely you have seen more than I have even described,” Sherlock was sure of this.   
“Yeah, but the fact that it’s a kid. A kid I spoke to yesterday, gave him my number to be safe and guess who calls me? His bloody paramedics!” Greg ran a hand over his face. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He’d seen plenty bloody crime scenes (in both senses of the word ‘bloody’), but this bothered him more than he wanted to admit.  
“Sherlock, knowing that it’s someone related to you, or close to you, generally causes people to feel the effects more acutely.” Mycroft explained in a tone that clearly said “normal people do”. Even so, Mycroft didn’t look happy at the prospect, though not quite as murderous as Lestrade suspected Sherlock was hiding.  
“Ah, yes.” Sherlock replied, acknowledging the social convention.   
“So you don’t care, that your son has been hit by some man?” Lestrade asked incredulously.   
“Don’t care?!” Sherlock barked. “You think I don’t care?! I’m furious!!” Sherlock scowled.   
“He’s mine, and while I don’t even want to attempt parenting him, people aren’t allowed to touch my things.”  
“Right.” Lestrade said. “That sounds… normal.”   
“Even I can pick up your sarcasm, Lestrade.” Sherlock snapped.   
“Are you going to stay overnight?” Mycroft interjected. Sherlock paused his pacing up and down the corridor.   
“I suppose so. I have no plans to sleep.” Lestrade looked pained.   
“Sherlock, you need to sleep at some point.”  
“Stop nagging,” Sherlock groaned, running a hand through his curls.   
“I shall send for proper clothes for you and the boy then,” Mycroft pulled his mobile out yet again, texting Anthea.  
“Are you staying as well, Gregory?”   
“I don’t have a wife to get home to, no plans, might as well. The boy looks like a good lad and he’ll need all the help he can get.” He jerked his head towards Sherlock who was walking briskly back towards his son’s hospital room.   
“I see, I’ll send for things for you as well. Take care, then. Look after Sherlock, if you don’t mind.” Mycroft said, holding a hand out for Greg to shake as parting. Greg took it, shook and released (only slightly unwillingly). Mycroft gave a charming smile, before exiting the corridor, swinging his umbrella all the while. Greg watched him go, blushing slightly before shaking his head to clear it and going the opposite way, to John’s room.  
~~~SH~~~~JHW~~~SH~~~JHW~~~SH~~~~JHW~~~SH~~~JHW~~~SH~~~JHW~~~~~SH  
The boy was twisting around on the starched cotton of the hospital bed, moaning softly. Sherlock momentarily debated with himself on whether or not to allow the nightmare to run its course before deciding to wake him, getting up from his chair alongside the opposite wall. He stealthily made his way across the room to John’s bed, to shake him awake. As he approached, John flinched back from an invisible attacker.  
“I’m sorry,” He whispered and Sherlock felt fury rising in his gut again. He buried it, for the time being, and gently shook John’s shoulder. The boy yelped as he woke up, panicking and panting like a marathon runner.   
“I-I’m sorry!” He cried out, clearly not fully awake.  
“John,” Sherlock said quietly. John’s eyes snapped to him and with a flare of recognition, John relaxed, pushing sweaty strands of hair back away from his forehead.  
“Oh, sorry to bother you.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Why is he still apologizing?  
“It wasn’t a bother.” The silence grew uncomfortable, so Lestrade, who had just come through the doorway, cleared his throat.  
“John, they’ll want to stitch you up before you leave. Sherlock, you’re needed at the station.” Sherlock glanced back to John before nodding and exiting the hospital room.  
“And don’t harass Anderson!” Lestrade called after the retreating back of the tall consulting detective.   
“No promises Lestrade!” Sherlock’s deep voice boomed back. Stepping back into John’s room, Lestrade gave him a wry grin.  
“C’mon why don’t we get you some stitches so you can get the hell outta here? Then we can grab some food and meet Sherlock at the Scotland Yard.” He looked around, sighing.  
“I bloody hate hospitals.” John nodded in agreement.  
“Where do I get stitches?” Lestrade shrugged, pulling out his mobile.  
Where do I take John to get his stitches? – GL  
Moments later Mycroft texted back.  
Floor two. Wait. I will be there shortly. – Mycroft Holmes  
“Alright, John, Mycroft’ll show us where to go once he gets here. It’ll only take a minute.” John nodded and Lestrade stepped a bit closer to the bed where John was sitting.  
“You sure you’re ready to live with Sherlock?” He asked awkwardly and the boy frowned.  
“I-I don’t know… It’s better than any foster home…” The boy looked dejectedly down at the covers.  
“I imagine it must be weird, going to live with some odd man.” Lestrade tried to sound encouraging, but he knew it didn’t come out that way.  
“Well, let’s get our minds off all that. Not exactly something you’d want to worry about, you’d start to doubt it.” Greg didn’t want John to dread living with Sherlock, but Jesus, this was so weird to even comprehend, much less comfort about.  
“How about a game of questions and answers?” The boy gave him a skeptic look.  
“What’s your favorite color? Mine’s red.” Said Lestrade, hoping to distract the boy.  
“Mine’s green, I suppose. Or dark blue. What do you do? As a detective inspector?” John sounded properly curious now and flashed him a hesitant grin.  
“I investigate crimes that are odd. Shady. And then, by looking at evidence and stuff like that, we can usually find out who did it. If not, well, we get Sherlock.” Greg winced.  
Jesus, I can’t even sum up my job to look cool. I might as well say I catch bad guys.   
“What school do you go to?” He asked.   
“Winchester secondary school. It’s really ghetto, lots of cracks in windows and walls, flooding and a bipolar heating system.” He gave Greg a mischievous grin.   
“Winchester huh? Public school?” John nodded.   
“I went to a private secondary, Saint Catherine’s.”  
“What is it, exactly, that Sherlock does?” Greg laughed.   
“You might want to ask him that yourself. I think he’d be offended if I tried to sum it up, but here goes. I think he most recently described it as: ‘when the police are out of their depth –which is always- they consult me’.”  
“But the police don’t consult amateurs?” Greg gave a full on, hearty laugh at that one.   
“Ah! Love to see you tell him that! He calls himself a consulting detective, only one in the world, ‘cause he invented the job. Course, he’s brilliant. Arrogant arse, but brilliant nonetheless.”  
“Talking about my brother?” A voice sounded from the door.   
“Oh, Mycroft. Morning.” Greg turned a bit pink and John sniggered quietly.  
“Morning. I have clothes for the both of you,” Mycroft announced, directing one of his flanking guards to Greg and John with his umbrella. The tall man in the suit handed each a pile of folded clothes.   
“Uhh, thanks.” John said hesitantly, looking over the brand new clothes nervously.  
He slipped off the bed and practically sprinted into the small adjoined bathroom, yanking the door closed behind him.  
Greg cleared his throat.   
“Uh, right. If you’ll excuse me for a minute.” He rushed out into the hallway in search of an open public restroom, trying desperately to ignore the bright flush on his face.

Several minutes later, Greg returned and John emerged from the bathroom. John twisted around like a puppy in chase of its own tail, pulling on the hoodie’s collar to check the tag.  
“Is there a problem?” Mycroft asked. John froze, releasing the tag and quickly shook his head.   
“No, sir. Just not used to the brand name stuff. It’s just weird.” John shrugged, scratching the back of his head.  
“Or Converse. The ones I had were five years old.” John smiled, balancing on one leg and wiggling the new red high-top wearing foot out in front of him.   
“Shall we get your stitches done then?” John nodded, but it was clear that he was nervous.  
“C’mon John, quicker the better with this type of stuff.” Greg said, moving to place a hand on John’s shoulder. He flinched away, violently and Greg took a step back.   
“Shall we get moving?” Mycroft said, pointing to the door with his umbrella. John nodded, swallowing nervously.   
~~~SH~~~~JHW~~~~MH~~~~GL~~~~SH~~~~JHW~~~~MH~~~~GL~~~~SH~~~~JHW~~~MH~~~GL   
John emerged from the private exam room pale-faced and visibly shaking.   
“All set?” Greg asked, getting up from the chair outside. John nodded.   
“You alright there John? How bout we get some food?” John nodded again.   
“Okay. Where’s Mycroft?”   
“He left to go to his work or something along those lines. He wasn’t really clear.”   
“Ah. Where are we gonna go for food, Detective Inspector?” Greg laughed.   
“Don’t call me that, kid, call me Greg.” He shook his head.   
“Umm,”  
“God, this is awkward. C’mon let’s get going.” Greg gestured to the elevator.   
“How were the stitches?”  
“Bad.” Was all John said, trembling.   
“It’ll get better. This whole big thing, I swear it’ll get better.” Greg offered a smile which John returned.  
“I can only hope.”

Greg and John ate at a small Chinese place recommended by Sherlock, and talked a bit about John’s life before.  
Greg burst out laughing, spluttering on the water he had just drunk.  
“You didn’t!”  
“Well, I did try to give it back. But Headmaster Philips didn’t really want a chewed up toupee.” John gave a cheeky grin.  
“It’s technically not my fault Ripper wouldn’t let go.”  
“I’m sure Philips would agree with that.” Greg said, scooping his last bite of curry into his mouth.  
“Well, that’s how I got expelled from my first primary school.” John took a bite of his lo mien.  
“That’s mad. Why did you even take the bloody toupee?”  
“He annoyed me, and Joe said I didn’t have the ba- guts to do it. He’s an arse, but I couldn’t have him bragging about how he didn’t wimp out.” John shrugged.   
“I’m not friends with him or anything.” John took a sip of his orange soda with a small smile playing at his lips.  
“You finished?” Greg asked, waving the waiter over. He nodded, going to his own pocket, withdrawing Anderson’s wallet.   
“Put, my forensics guy’s wallet away, I’ll pay.” He gave John a smile.  
“Sorry to ask, but could I get the wallet back? Anderson’s a bit pissed.” John shrugged, tossing the wallet to Greg’s outstretched hand.  
“Sherlock’s proud of that. He pick-pockets Anderson when he’s annoyed by him. Does the same to me, for that matter.” Greg pocketed Anderson’s wallet and tossed a few bills on the table.  
“Shall we get to the Scotland Yard? Sherlock should be there. Or in the morgue at St. Bart’s, I’m not sure how far along he is in the case.”  
“A morgue?”   
“Yeah.” Greg stood and John did the same. They walked outside, John re-zipping his sweatshirt, shivering in the cold London air. Greg stuck a hand out and called a cab.  
“How is it that you get a cab in five minutes and the other day it took me three times as long?” John pouted slightly, scooting into the cab. Greg grinned.  
“The magic of height.”  
“Oh shut up,” Snapped John, sensitive about his short stature.  
“Honest to God Johnny, you look like an eight year-old.” John shuddered.  
“What is it?” Greg asked, confused.  
“Please, don’t call me Johnny. I’m just John.” John shook his head, then scratched roughly at his wrist.  
“Okay then John.”

~~~SH~~~JHW~~~~MH~~~GL~~~~SH~~~JHW~~~MH~~~GL~~~SH~~~JHW~~~MH~~~GL~~~SH

“Lestrade?” Sherlock called, several hours later, bursting into the station.  
“Where’s John?” Lestrade looked over at him.  
“He’s been here for a couple hours. You solve it?”  
“Transparent. It was the brother. Where’s John?”  
“My office, be quiet, he’s asleep.” Sherlock ignored him, bursting into the office.  
“John.” He said, spotting the boy curled up in Lestrade’s leather chair, a large coat draped over him like a blanket.  
“Sh’lock?” John stirred, confused.  
“Wassgoinon?” He rubbed the crumbs out of his eyes with a fist, yawning so wide it stretched his face.  
“I’m here to take you to my flat.” Sherlock said. It was true, he had just moved into 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was looking forward to spoiling John.  
“Mkay, where is it?” He yawned again.  
“Westminster.” John took the coat off him, and held it awkwardly, looking around. Sherlock held out a hand and John handed it to him. He led the way out of the office, tossing Lestrade his jacket as he went.  
“See you soon then, John?” Lestrade asked. John looked to Sherlock for conformation. He nodded.  
“Looks like it. See you Greg.”  
“Why are you calling him Greg?” Sherlock interjected.  
“He told me I could…” John looked hesitant and nervous again.  
“Why’d you tell him that?”   
“Greg is my name, Sherlock.” Lestrade snapped.   
The completely stunned look on Sherlock’s face was incredible; John started to giggle into his hands.  
“What are you laughing about?” Sherlock snapped. Immediately John sobered.  
“N-nothing, sir.” John whispered. Sherlock froze, eyes scanning John; deducing what was wrong. Sherlock sighed, taking a deep breath.  
“I am not angry with you, John.” John visibly relaxed.  
“Sorry,” The boy immediately apologized again.  
“Don’t apologize. Come on, we should go.”  
They made their way to the entrance of the building. Lestrade called after them:  
“Make sure you feed him! Normal people require three meals a day!”   
Sherlock snorted and placed a guiding hand on John’s shoulder, ignoring the flinch.  
“Did I tell you you’re switching schools? Mycroft’s decision.” John turned his head to look behind him.  
“No, you didn’t.”   
“Consider yourself informed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard for me to figure out, so I hope you enjoy. Rate, review, vote, comment, kudos do whatever applies if you liked it.  
> Hoping to hear from your comments,  
> -CM


	4. Chapter 4 - An Altercation with the Holmes Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, my internet is being a heartless bitch! It’ll say it’s connected, then limited connection. God, I hate Verizon! And I have spent far too much time the last few days looking up Mystrade and Johnlock stuff on Tumblr, but it’s just so fun!  
> I don’t have much to say in this author’s note, besides asking how you guys like this so far. I hope you continue to enjoy and read!

Chapter 4 – An Altercation with the Holmes Father   
John yawned, rubbing his eyes with a closed fist and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the cab window.   
“What time is it?” He asked sleepily, turning from the darkened window to look at Sherlock.  
“Half past eight.” John’s head tilted to the side, making Sherlock jump. That was exactly how Sherlock looked when he was interested or curious; the tilt of the head and the slight narrowing of the eyes.  
“Really? I shouldn’t be this tired. I don’t sleep until ten or eleven.”   
“I thought children were supposed to sleep early,” Sherlock said.  
“I’m not a child!” John protested, muffling another yawn with his hand.  
The cab slowed to a stop in front of Sherlock’s old flat. He hadn’t finished packing and wanted to get it done as soon as possible.  
“Thought you said your flat’s in Westminster?”  
“Still need to pack before we go to Baker Street. We should be there by the end of the week.”  
John nodded, stumbling out of the cab and tripping on one of his own feet, throwing a hand out to steady himself on the cab. Sherlock snickered quietly and John, having balanced himself, threw Sherlock a glare.   
“Oh shut it.” 

Sherlock rummaged in his coat for the flat key and unlocked the door, gesturing for John to go ahead. John stepped through the darkened doorway, fumbling for the light switch along the wall.  
Sherlock laughed quietly and scrabbled at the wall above John’s head and flicked the switch.  
“I imagine you’ll have a growth spurt. All the men in my family are tall; you’ve seen Mycroft.”   
“Hopefully. Being shorter than everyone at school sucks. Once, in class I was called to the board and I couldn’t reach the problem. It was bloody murder.” Sherlock restrained a chuckle and placed a hand on the top of John’s head. John held back a flinch and Sherlock’s humor faded, replaced by anger.

He stepped deeper into the flat, closing the door behind him. He turned John to face him, crouched down and placed a hand on both of John’s shoulders.  
“What is it, John?” He asked, locking his eyes onto John’s. John tried to pull away and broke eye contact, but Sherlock held him still.  
“John. Tell me. Now.” Sherlock demanded. His eyes searched over John, looking for answers.  
John’s nervous, his fists are tightening and his jaw is clenched. His index finger is picking at the cuticles of his thumb. He was doing this earlier, when he was afraid of my response. He’s afraid, but what does he fear? Me, most likely, but perhaps the consequences of telling me. The man that attacked him… John feels like the threat is still there.   
Should I be reassuring him?  
“John, that man cannot get you.”  
“What man?!” John squeaked, trying to step back.  
“No, John, you need to hear this. The man that attacked you –do not try and deny it, I’ve already deduced it- cannot get you here. Nor anywhere. Your uncle is basically the British government, and you’ve already befriended the best of the Scotland Yarders. And you have me, my homeless network and my various connections. He won’t be able to harm you. Do you understand?” John’s face was a portrait of emotions, shock, fear, and just barely a flicker of desperation and even hope.  
“Do you understand?” Sherlock queried again, John’s eyes finally locking onto his own. John paused, deep blue eyes searching Sherlock’s own pale ones, looking for untruth, deceit and deception.  
“I understand.” John said quietly.  
“Good. Now, help me pack up the flat?” Sherlock asked, standing up and undoing his scarf.  
“Am I just here for free labor?” John asked jokingly, tugging his new sweatshirt over his head.  
“Naturally,” Sherlock chuckled lightly, tossing his long coat over the banister and heading up the stairs.

John followed, tripping up the last step and falling flat on his face.  
“How the hell do you manage to fall up the stairs?” Sherlock asked from inside the flat as John stood, wincing and rubbing the heels of his hands together.   
“I dunno, I’m not used to shoes that fit. It gets me off balance.” John shrugged and headed into the living room of Sherlock’s flat. He paused in the doorway, taking in all the boxes and all the remaining unpacked crap.   
“Done by the end of the week?” John asked incredulously.  
“It’ll take way longer than just two days!”   
“That’s why you’re helping. Besides, you can stay up for as long as you like as long as you throw something in a box. You don’t have school tomorrow, so it won’t matter.” John grinned.  
“I get outta school?!”   
“I told you, you’re changing schools. It seems pointless to send you to a new school for a little over a month before summer holidays, so I’ll just have you read a couple books or something.”  
“Awesome!” John crowed, leaping across the room, knees bent and both fists in a victory dance. 

Sherlock looked on with amusement and slight wonder. That was exactly what he did the last time Lestrade saved him from his boredom.  
John looked up from his victory and blushed, looking everywhere but Sherlock’s face.  
“Sorry about that.”  
“Not an issue, I do the same thing. Different reasons, but same dance.”  
“What do you dance about?” John asked, confused.  
Sherlock paused. He figured it wouldn’t be the best to tell his son that he danced because he was invited to the crime scene of a murder, but better than lying, no?  
“Ah. Right. I get bored, seeing as my mind is far superior to those of ordinary people, and I need stimuli…”  
“Is it your job? Greg said you said it was ‘when the police are over their heads they call you’?”  
Sherlock laughed.  
“I suppose that’s true.”  
“So you do a happy dance about the crimes?” John asked, his eyebrow raised.  
“Well, specifically murders.” Sherlock shrugged and picked up a roll of packing tape.  
“Shall we get started?”   
“Sure,” John said, seemingly unperturbed by Sherlock’s confession.

John grabbed an empty box and a Sharpie.   
“Do you want them in any specific way?”  
“No, just use your common sense.” Sherlock began to toss a bunch of papers into one box. John looked around, walking over to the cluttered desk and began to throw the various pens, thumb-drives and the works into the box, labeling it: “Sherlock’s Desk Crap”.  
“Eloquent.” Sherlock deadpanned after seeing the label.  
“I thought so too,” John said with a cheeky grin.

The next hours passed with a smattering of conversation, mainly questions from both Sherlock and John, their curiosity matched.   
“This a violin or a viola?” John asked, pointing to the instrument case. Sherlock smiled, pleased that John knew of the viola as well as the violin and their similarities.  
“Violin. It should be somewhere in here; I rarely keep it in its case.”   
“Oh. I play, well, played viola. My teacher made me switch to clarinet so the French foreign exchange student could be in orchestra.” Sherlock made a disdainful noise in the back of his throat.  
“I prefer the viola, but I guess it’s a moot point, since I’m switching schools and I borrowed the instrument. Mum didn’t have enough money to get one.” John trailed off, searching for Sherlock’s violin.  
“Found it!” He knelt down in front of the case and gently placed it in its velvet lining, after removing the shoulder rest.  
“Where’s the bow, Sherlock?” Sherlock shrugged.  
“Not sure. Try the music stand.” John gave him a look.  
“You’re standing right next to it. Give it here?” He asked, holding out his hand.  
Sherlock gave an almighty suffering sigh, and complied.  
“There, was that so hard?” John said in a mocking, babying tone.  
“Don’t be insufferable, John.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  
“Sorry.” John immediately apologized, turning to place the bow in the case before zipping it up.

Sherlock stood up suddenly, as if struck by realization, striding across the living room and into the kitchen.   
“Well then,” John said, pulling another box over to him, plopping down onto the ground, sitting cross-legged. Just as he uncapped the marker to label it, someone banged hard on the door. John stood, cracked his neck and wandered over to the door, pulling it a quarter of the way open, giving him ample time to slam the door shut if needed.  
Waiting outside was a tall man with graying hair. He looked surprised to see John answer the door.

“Well?” John asked once he and the man stared at each other for half a minute.  
“Is your father in?”  
“Why? If this is about the gunshots, it wasn’t anything, just an accident!” John’s eyes narrowed and his face paled a bit.  
“I am Nathaniel Holmes, Sherlock’s father.”   
“Sherlock!” John called, his eyes not leaving Nathaniel’s face.  
Sherlock strolled over and froze.  
“John, come here.” He ordered. John obeyed, paling further at the frozen look on Sherlock’s face. As soon as John was in reach, Sherlock placed an arm around his shoulder and pulled him into his side.  
“What do you want?” He snapped at Nathaniel Holmes.   
“Am I not allowed to see my new-found grandson?” Nate asked, a seemingly innocent look on his face.  
“No, you are not.” Sherlock said angrily, pulling his mobile out and sending a text.  
“You are not allowed to come near this family again. You agreed, and we moved on.”  
“But John wasn’t and isn’t a part of the family. He was supposedly never alive.” John froze.  
“What?”   
“Did he not tell you, boy? You were supposed to be an abortion. His-“ He jerked his head at Sherlock.  
“-parents and your mum’s parents both agreed to force Jennifer have an abortion. Sherlock didn’t do a thing about it.” John froze and stepped away from Sherlock.  
“W-what?”

The door burst open and in stormed Mycroft and –to both Sherlock’s and John’s surprise- Lestrade.  
“What is going on here?!” Barked Greg, taking in the scene, John looking like a deer caught in headlights, absolutely terrified, Sherlock looking furious and the unknown man with a smirk on his face. Apparently Mycroft had explained some of it on the way. Sherlock thought.  
“What are you doing here?!” Snarled Mycroft and Nate Holmes at the same time.  
“Sherlock asked me.” Mycroft snapped.  
“And I believe that you shouldn’t be here. You were told to stay away.” Mycroft growled.  
“What did he mean by that, Sherlock?” John asked, sounding like a lost puppy.  
“Mean by what?” Greg asked, not liking John’s desperate tone.   
“He informed John of the decision made by mine and Jennifer’s parents eleven years ago. And made it sound like I agreed.”   
“What decision?”  
“Jennifer’s abortion.” Mycroft said.  
“They wanted her to have one.”   
“Did you want her to have one too, Sherlock?” The hidden words did you want me? Were quite clear in John’s voice.  
“Of course he did! Why do you think he just found out about you now?!” Nate Holmes cut in. The look on John’s face was devastated, and his jaw clenched to prevent the trembling. 

“How dare you!?” Sherlock roared, taking a step towards his father.  
“How dare you say that?!”  
“Then why didn’t you stop your mother and stepfather? Or the Watsons?”   
Sherlock glared at Mycroft.  
“I, again am so sorry, Sherlock. You know why I was hesitant to object, but it-”   
“Oh, poor wittle Mycroft, scared of getting huwt?” Nate cut in, mocking in a baby tone. Mycroft paled and his eyes changed and grew haunted.

“You son of a bitch!” Roared Greg, leaping into action and punching the eldest Holmes in the face so hard he stumbled back.  
“Nice punch!” John exclaimed, his inner turmoil vanishing for the moment as Greg cradled his knuckles to his chest, wincing from the force of the punch.  
“Get out,” Sherlock snarled at his father, putting his arm around John’s shoulder.   
Nathaniel Holmes went, spitting and cussing like a deranged hyena.

“Thank you, Gregory. That was… unnecessary.” Mycroft said quietly, regaining some of his composure.  
“No, it was necessary. That bastard should never have said that.”

“Sherlock?” John almost whispered.  
“I had barely any time, just a few weeks to get used to the idea. I had told Mycroft to tell Mummy and my stepfather that I did want you, but he didn’t. He was afraid.”  
“Why was he afraid?”  
“My father was much like all the people you have been around, but he was more… permanent. He got to Mycroft more than me, and Mycroft was afraid of challenging my mother and stepfather, especially when they were set in their own ways. Luckily, now, he doesn’t have that issue. Would you say I summed it up well, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, tearing his gaze away from John.  
“I suppose, given the circumstances.”   
“We should get going,” Mycroft said finally.   
“I almost forgot,” He pulled the stuffed red panda from a pocket and handed it to John. John took it hesitantly and whispered his thanks.

As Greg and Mycroft were leaving Sherlock called after them:  
“Sorry to disrupt the date!” And laughed as the door was promptly slammed shut.  
“John, what that man said was not true. I need you to understand this.” Sherlock said, serious once again.  
“I understand, Sherlock.” John mumbled. Sherlock was about to tell him to speak up, but decided against it. It was a long night.  
“Go to bed, I need to think as well.” He said instead.  
“But what about the boxes and stuff?”  
“We’ll get it done later. It’s late. Go to bed.” John sighed and nodded, scampering off to the only bedroom. Sherlock had already decided to take the couch, figuring he wouldn’t sleep.  
He steepled his fingers together and resting his chin on them, in a half praying position.

Sherlock didn’t know how much time had passed, but he rose and went to check on John. He was curled up in a miniature ball on the over-sized bed, sleeping restlessly. Sherlock supposed it was only natural, the first night at a new place, especially a night as messed up as this one, John was bound to have difficulty sleeping.

Sherlock retired to the couch for the night, a nicotine patch on his bare arm, enjoying the feeling it gave him, the slight relax in his mind’s ever-moving clockwork.  
~~~SH~~~JHW~~~MH~~~GL~~~SH~~~JHW~~~MH~~~GL~~~SH~~~JHW~~~MH~~~GL~~~SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:  
> This took a bit, but it’s finished! Enjoy, rate, review, comment, whatever applies!  
> -CM


	5. Chapter 5 - Wake Up In The Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Sorry it’s been a while, and I am sure all of you are kind of confused because of all of my changes in the time period. Okay. Last time. Most likely. John H. Watson is age 11. Sherlock Holmes is age 28. I believe. The story takes place, as of now, in 2009. Now, I have changed my mind. John’s birthday is May 22nd. Since his birthday is now later, he will turn 12. As of now, the story is in about May 3rd. Is everyone clear? You sure? Now, let the readership commence!

Chapter 5 – Wake Up in the Morning   
There was a small THUD and the distinct shuffle of feet before John finally emerged from Sherlock’s bedroom, bleary eyed and wrapped in the fluffy duvet. Sherlock looked over from his sprawl across the couch.  
“Finally awake?” He snapped, bored out of his mind. John opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse cough.  
“’M sorry.” He finally managed to croak out. He coughed quietly into the duvet and immediately relinquished his grip on the covers upon spotting the disdain on Sherlock’s face.  
“Sorry.” He said again.  
“Stop the insufferable apologies.” Sherlock snapped.  
“Sor-“John stalled mid-apology and looked back down. He moved to turn away as his stomach growled loudly. His face glowed red and he twisted the duvet around in his fingers. He gave an awkward cough and stumbled back into the bedroom only to reemerge minutes later.  
“Can I take a shower?” He asked hesitantly.  
“Why wouldn’t you be able to?” Sherlock snapped, rolling over on the couch, facing the leather cushions.  
John nodded and wandered back into the bathroom and Sherlock heard the water running. He groaned and sat up, his silken blue dressing gown hanging loosely off of his thin frame and his brown curls a knotted, disheveled mess. He needed a shower as well, more so than John even. Which is saying something, considering that John is an eleven year old little boy. In his defense, he’d had a busy few days with not much reason to leave the flat. Besides discovering his eleven year old son, obviously.  
When John appeared his hair was wet and glued to his forehead, and his waist was wrapped in a towel, his plastered arm in a plastic bag that he immediately shook off and binned.   
“Umm, Sherlock?” He asked quietly.  
Sherlock looked up disinterestedly and immediately snorted.  
“You don’t have any spare clothes, do you?” John shook his head, his face tomato red.   
“It may have… slipped my mind…” Sherlock’s snort grew into a full bellied laugh and John even managed a giggle.  
Sherlock stood, sighing and went into his bedroom, pulling open a drawer and grabbing some clothes and throwing them at John.  
“Thanks,” Came John’s muffled reply. He pulled the baggy shirt and trousers off of his head with one hand, keeping a firm grip on the white towel round his skinny waist with the other and almost sprinted back into the bedroom. Sherlock laughed a little, amused, and pulled his mobile from the pocket of his dressing gown to text Mycroft, demanding new clothes for John. He didn’t want to ask his annoying brother for any favors whatsoever but it was better than actually having to buy clothes for John himself. He scoffed at the mere idea.  
John appeared in the doorway to the living room, hair still wet and his limbs drowned in Sherlock’s dress shirt and trousers.   
“I think it’s a bit big…” He flapped the baggy sleeves around.  
“I texted Mycroft, he should be here in a bit. In the meantime just roll your sleeves up.” John did so and gave a half-hearted smile.  
“So. More packing today?”   
Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes in thought. Suddenly, an idea struck him and he spryly leaped up from the couch once more.  
“Yes. Unfortunately.” Sherlock went to a hall closet and pulled a towel out, passed John and reached out, ruffling his hair as he went. John, to his surprise, barely flinched back. Quite an improvement from the day before.   
“Make yourself food, we’re leaving soon.” He called from behind his shoulder.  
“I thought we were packing today!”   
“Change of plans!” Sherlock hollered, and closed the bathroom door behind him, leaving John to rummage through cabinets in search of non-expired, edible, substances. The pickings were sparse: nothing but a half-eaten box of stale Cheerios. He poured a bowl and jabbed at the dry cereal, standing at the counter and poking at it with a spoon. John sighed and glanced dejectedly at the floppy silken sleeves. His was consoled by the fact that he was still wearing his own pants and new high-tops. He grinned as he glanced down at the rounded tops of his shoes.  
I feel like the Doctor in these! John thought to himself. He briefly entertained the idea of asking Sherlock if he liked Doctor Who but immediately cast it aside with a minute shake of his head. He’d probably scoff through just the opening scene and correctly predict the entire episode in five minutes. He’s like River. Spoilers!   
John sniggered to himself. He pulled himself from his thoughts and looked back down at the dull cereal. He picked one up with his fingers, popped it into his mouth and winced at the stale taste. He shrugged and tossed the rest of the bowl into the trash.  
John placed the bowl into the sink and opened the fridge and jumped back with a yell. Several feet, human feet, were rested on the middle shelf of the fridge!   
“What the bloody hell?!” Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, fully clothed and rubbing a towel through his curly locks.  
“What is it?” He asked, exasperated.  
“There’s severed feet in the fridge! Human feet!”   
“And…?”  
“And…” John couldn’t think of what to say.  
“And…”  
“It’s for an experiment. It’s not like the owner needs them anymore.”   
“That’s not the point!” John snapped, exasperated.  
“Do make the point quickly then, I needn’t be bored more than necessary.” Sherlock said dryly. John shook his head in disbelief.  
“Come on John. Obviously you haven’t eaten. I suppose we can get something elsewhere.” Sherlock shot a look of disgust at the glob of chewed up Cheerios at the top of the rubbish bin.  
“They were stale!” John defended. The door creaked open and Mycroft walked in, swinging his umbrella casually, leading one of his “minions” as Sherlock called them, into the flat. The man was carrying a small pile of folded clothes and immediately handed them to John.  
“Um… Thanks…” John said quietly, disappearing into the bedroom once again, eager to get out of the room. Sherlock and Mycroft were glaring at each other. Again. John didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire between two arguing adults. He had made that mistake once too often.  
“I expected you to order a minion to deliver them, not actually grace us with your presence, Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped.  
“I wouldn’t dream of missing out on my nephew.” Mycroft’s smile was twisted, and patronizing.   
“Mycroft, you needn’t feel obliged to bother us anytime it caters to your whim.” Sherlock scowled.  
“What exactly is it that I am keeping the both of you from?” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Packing up this,” He paused as he looked around the flat, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Lovely flat?”  
“I was about to go visit Lestrade,”  
“Taking the child on a murder case, how responsible.” Mycroft’s voice oozed sarcasm.  
“A murder case? Really?!” John piped up from the doorway.  
“He certainly is your son.” Mycroft noted John’s slightly excited voice.  
“Well, I’m not happy, but, I mean, how many kids’ll get to see a murder?” John said, then winced at what he said.  
“Not a murder as in like a stabbing or something but, like, um… you know…” John’s face was pink and he looked awkwardly down at his shoes, shuffling them on the floor.  
Sherlock moved to John’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder.  
“It’s fine, John.” John nodded miserably, clearly uncomfortable.  
“Leave Mycroft.” Sherlock demanded, tightening his fingers over John’s shoulder for a brief moment, then relaxed them again.   
Mycroft went to say something, but John moved out of Sherlock’s hold and went into the kitchen, putting the kettle on.  
“Don’t be rude, Sherlock.” John bustled about in the kitchen, getting teacups ready.  
“How do you take your tea?”  
Sherlock and Mycroft did the Holmes equivalent of an open-mouthed stare and John raised an eyebrow.  
“What?”  
“Oh look at you!” Sherlock exclaimed, clapping his hands together and rushing over to John, running a hand through John’s hair. John flinched back, on edge because of Mycroft’s presence.  
“Look at this! Your face! Your little face!” Sherlock pointed giddily.  
“Ummm,” John didn’t know how to respond.  
Sherlock was intrigued by the pensive look that crossed John’s face. It looked absolutely adult, like he had made tea a thousand times before, the lines well-worn on his slightly round face.  
“Sherlock, can-can you stop?” John asked quietly, eyes frantically tracking all of Sherlock’s rapid movements. Sherlock paused and saw John’s flushed face, rapid breathing and nearly shut eyes and immediately froze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:  
> Sorry this is short and took forever, but I wanted to upload.  
> CM


	6. Chapter 6 - Shopping Around (Harrassing Geniuses)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is going somewhere, I believe. FINAL NOTE: JOHN IS GOING TO START SCHOOL AT AGE 14. HE’S CURRENTLY 13. THIS IS THE LAST TIME MAYBE

Chapter 6 – Shopping Around (Harassing Geniuses)   
“Mycroft, would you be so kind as to send your minion outside?” Sherlock requested. It was obvious by John’s curled in shoulders and paled face that he was on edge because of something. It wasn’t Mycroft, he had already gotten past fear with Mycroft, John didn’t believe Mycroft would harm him. A clearly armed guard with dark glasses on and a silent demeanor was a different matter entirely.   
Mycroft sighed and waved the guard out with a lazy hand. John relaxed immediately, which, to be honest, surprised Sherlock. John shouldn’t be terrified of an armed guard. Frightened, unsettled perhaps, but certainly not terrified. Sherlock made a mental note to ask about it later. No need to get Mycroft involved.  
“So, are we going to see Lestrade?” John asked, reaching for the boiled kettle just before its shriek rang out through the small flat.  
“Yes, but not immediately. Is tea really necessary?”  
“It’s the polite thing to do Sherlock, hasn’t anyone told you that?”   
Mycroft smirked.  
“People do little else,” He said with a small chuckle.  
“Your tea? How d’you take it?” John asked.  
“Milk, two sugars.”   
“Sherlock?”  
“None for me, I had tea yesterday.”  
“That’s not how food works! Let me think…” John’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember how Sherlock had tossed the foul concoction he’d called tea together.  
“Dash of milk, one and a half sugars exactly?” He came up with, looking to Sherlock questioningly. Sherlock, surprised, nodded and John poured the water into cups and added everything required.  
“What has Lestrade got, what type of case?” John queried, handing a cup to Mycroft and Sherlock each before holding his to his nose and sniffing deeply.  
“Vanilla chai smells like Christmas, you know.” John spouted randomly.  
“Lovely,” Sherlock shot back sarcastically.   
“It’s a tame murder, a poisoning. Nothing too gruesome.”   
“Can I see the body?” John asked excitedly.  
“If you want,” Mycroft looked pained at Sherlock’s response.  
“Sherlock, you don’t show a child a dead body!”  
“Don’t be a bore Mycroft,” Sherlock and John replied in unison.  
“Good lord, what has Gregory gotten himself into?” Mycroft muttered to himself as Sherlock gave John a proud look.  
“You said we weren’t going to see Lestrade right away, where are we going first?” John asked, sipping his tea, then spluttering.  
“Damn that’s hot!”  
“This is what years of public education gets you,” Mycroft drawled.  
“I forgot, what school am I going to go to?” John twisted his head to look at Sherlock.  
“Hathaway.”  
“WHAT?!” John shot up from his seat, shoving his teacup onto the kitchen table.  
“No! No way! No way am I going to that posh prat producing school! Not gonna happen!”  
“It happens to be where Sherlock and I went for secondary school.” Mycroft added smoothly.  
“Case in point.” John snapped.  
“Why can’t I just go to Winchester secondary?”   
“Because the graduation rate is low, the amount of students accepted to good universities is lower and it is, as lovingly put by its students, ghetto.”  
“Yeah, but-“  
“No use John.” Sherlock said scornfully. “I myself have tried, and failed to successfully avoid going and to get expelled. Mycroft bribes them.” He shot his older brother a glare.  
“For heaven’s sake, at least it is no longer a boarding school. John will be home every night.” Mycroft said, exasperated. This relaxed John a little.   
“Finally. Did they decide they couldn’t bear another pupil like myself every night?”   
“Funnily enough, they switched from being a boarding academy the year after you graduated.” Sherlock scowled again.  
“Still, I’ll have to deal with posh prats all day!”  
“I’m afraid complaining is pointless, John.” Mycroft drawled.  
John sat down with a huff, sprawling out on the armchair and crossing his legs at the ankles.  
“When does it start?” He said complacently.   
“September first, but orientation for new students is soon; it’s in June.”   
John scowled.  
“How many people are from public schools there?” He asked. Mycroft gave a thin smile.  
“Few.” John’s scowl deepened.   
“Alright Sherlock, shall we?” John leaped from the chair suddenly.  
“Hang on.” Sherlock said with a slight smirk.  
“Wallet.”  
“What are you talking about?” John asked, confused.   
Sherlock rolled his eyes and clicked his fingers together, holding out his palm.  
John sighed and dug into the pocket of his new jeans, removing a sleek leather wallet.  
“Whose is this?”  
“Mycroft’s…” John looked down at his shoes. To his utmost surprise, Sherlock leaned his head back and laughed, a low chuckle that rumbled around the room.  
“Getting slow, are we, brother dear?” Mycroft rolled his eyes.   
“It’s for show anyway, I keep my real wallet hidden elsewhere.”  
“You mean on your guards?” Sherlock shot back.  
Mycroft stayed silent. Sherlock tossed the wallet back to John, who caught it disbelievingly.  
“I get to keep it?”  
“Why not? There’s no form of identification in it, nor any credit cards. Your uncle is basically the British government, I don’t think a couple quid will make a difference.” Sherlock said loftily.  
“Awesome!” John quickly counted the bills.  
“Sherlock, this is more than a couple quid…”  
“I can’t be bothered to get groceries and children tend to eat constantly. Use it well.”  
“I’m not a child!” John protested again.  
“You are thirteen and have the stature of a ten year old.”  
“I’ll grow!” John snapped defensively.  
“I don’t doubt it.” Sherlock soothed, standing.  
“If you would excuse us Mycroft, we have a case to solve.”  
“After we get food.” John put in quickly, zipping his hooded jumper.  
“If you insist.” Sherlock complained, sounding like a petulant child.  
“Honest to god, Sherlock, how old are you?” John said, and Mycroft snorted quietly.  
Sherlock threw him a glare before grabbing his coat and looping his scarf around his neck.  
“Come along, John. We have many things to do before we see Lestrade?”  
“Oh?” Mycroft said. “Like what?”  
“John needs a mobile and a coat.”  
“A mobile?! Really?!” John exclaimed, a shit-eating grin on his face.  
“I prefer to text. Besides, I never know when I might need cigarettes and be busy.”  
“I thought you quit?” Mycroft said.  
“Fine. Nicotine patches.” Sherlock scowled darkly, firing off a text to Lestrade.  
“Mycroft, we’re leaving. Get out.”  
“Play nice, Sherlock.” John said lazily, sprawling across the armchair once more.  
“I was just leaving anyway.” Mycroft tapped the tip of his umbrella against the wooden floor and walked down the stairs, the umbrella thumping with each step.  
“Come John.” Sherlock said once he heard the click of the door.  
John complied and they both rushed out of the flat, John slamming the door shut behind him.

Sherlock hailed a cab quickly and soon they were off to the nearest mall.  
“Now, we are going to be quick. In and out. Three stops only. The store for your phone, department store and wherever you wish to feed yourself. No longer than an hour.” Sherlock’s tone was crisp and businesslike.  
“Will I… err, have to pay my phone bill?” John asked awkwardly. Sherlock gave him an odd look.  
“You’d need a source of steady income for that to be plausible and few people hire those under the age of sixteen. No, you’ll be on my bill. Verizon. Decide what phone you want now; I’m not being dragged around a…” Sherlock struggled for adequate words to describe the shopping mall.  
“Cesspool of idiots, just to cater to your whim.”  
“Can I get an iPhone?” John asked eagerly, ignoring Sherlock’s miniature tirade.  
“If you must. Decide on a model before we reach the Apple store and do think of any accessories it will require. I don’t wish to return because you forgot headphones.”  
“The newest one.” John replied immediately with a rare, self-indulgent smile. “The five.”  
“It doesn’t matter to me.”   
They arrived shortly thereafter and quickly made their way to the Apple store. Upon spotting the sign that read “Genius Bar” Sherlock had to be physically restrained by John, the short boy reaching on his tip-toes to cover his… guardian’s mouth.  
“Sherlock, shut up! Mall security will throw you in the mall jail thing, and somehow I doubt Mycroft’ll bail you out before you’re bored shitless!”   
“How can I help you gentlemen?” A worker came over, iPad in hand and fake smile in place. John immediately spoke up, not allowing Sherlock to get a word in.  
“An iPhone five please.” The pretty employee gave John a skeptical look and she glanced at Sherlock.  
“By all means, get the boy what he wants.”  
“Don’t call me ‘the boy’!” John snapped. Sherlock smirked.  
“Sherlock,” John muttered as the employee sauntered away.  
“You’re rich, right?”  
“Basically.” Sherlock sounded bored. John’s grin came back full force.  
“Can I get Beats?”  
“Beats?”  
“Headphones, by Dr. Dre.”  
“Fine. But get ear buds too. You can’t listen to music in class with the regular headphones on, even the idiots that work at Hathaway would notice.”  
“Hang on, you’re going to get me two pairs of headphones?” John was more than surprised; he was shocked.  
In a rare flash of sentiment, Sherlock replied: “Consider it a way to make up to you, for all the birthdays and ridiculous holidays I missed.”   
John’s face was starting to ache from the rare amount of smiling he was doing that day.  
“I’m warning you now, I will not stand for you blasting absolute pop crap throughout the flat at all hours of the day.  
“I don’t even listen to pop! I like good music!”  
“What do you classify as good?” Sherlock said skeptically.  
“Almost anything but pop and country, excluding dubstep. Classical, especially the Baroque era. And other music, like Panic! At the Disco, Green Day, Aerosmith, ACDC, et cetera.”   
“I’ll allow the classical. Who are your favorite composers?” Sherlock was actually intrigued to know. He had always favored Vivaldi himself, as well as Bach.  
“Bach, Vivaldi, Beethoven, Mozart, Rossini, an assortment really.”  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Maybe having a child wouldn’t be as hellish as he’d previously thought.  
~~SH~~JHW~~MH~~GL~~SH~~JHW~~MH~~GL~~MH~~JM~~SM~~NH~~SH~~JHW~~MH~~GL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the wait.  
> CM


	7. Chapter 7 - A Minor Escape part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short guys

Sherlock looked on, amused, as John leapt about the crowded store, weaving in and out of the crowds of idiotic consumers vying for the attention of the so-called Apple “geniuses”.   
“Can I help you, sir?” A lanky teenager with unkempt hair and a bored drawl asked him. Sherlock glared at the blue-uniform before moving his gaze to the boy’s face, deducing as he went. Before Sherlock spoke, he quickly glanced to make sure John was preoccupied elsewhere. Sure enough, John was across the shop, holding up Sherlock’s credit card as if to say “Do you think I’m serious now, lady?” Not that John was impolite enough to say something along those lines. Little brat must have pick-pocketed him. Sherlock snickered lightly to himself before his eyes went calculatingly cold once more.  
“You help me?” Sherlock snorted dubiously. “Why would I need assistance from a boy failing the lowest level Algebra the local high school provides, with a summer of make-up work to look forward to, and a fear that your girlfriend is going to break up with you once you see her on your break, three minutes from now, exactly.” Sherlock spoke quickly, throwing each deduction rapid-fire at the now puce-faced employee. Enraged, the worker threw a sloppy right hook. Sherlock dodged it easily, catching the teen’s wrist as the employee was throw off balance by the force of his miss.  
“Security!” The store manager yelled. Sherlock swore under his breath as he spotted the yellow-jacketed mall security rushing forwards…

As the security cleared off, John threw a final smile at the female employee (her nametag read “Jessica”) as she finished checking out his items. He quickly scanned in Sherlock’s credit card, punched in the PIN (he may not be able to deduce, but he can observe) and paid, hefting a bag with two sets of Beats, the box his new iPhone came in (said phone was tucked in his jeans pocket) and several iTunes gift-cards off the counter.  
“JOHN WATSON please report to mall security. JOHN WATSON to mall security.” A crackly voice blasted through the intercom.  
“Fuck.” John hissed under his breath. A woman pushing a stroller nearby gave him a glare and John offered a sheepish “sorry ma’am”.   
When John arrived at the security stand in the rear of the mall, he had to get on tip-toe to see over the ridiculously high desk.  
“’Scuse me,” John said. The guard put his sub back on its greasy wrapper and grunted.  
“Yeah?”  
“I was called here. On the intercom… thingy.” The guard eyed him with increasing interest.  
“You’re sure you’re John Watson?”  
“Yeah, I’ve only been called that since birth, so I’m pretty sure. Now, why did you call me here?” John took an immediate dislike to the guard.   
“Huh. Was expectin’ someone taller.” The guard got up, both he and the unfortunate chair underneath him groaned, one in pain, one in unbearable relief.   
“Why was I called down?” John bit out, completely exasperated.  
“One Sherlock Holmes was caught in a brawl and requested you. D’you know him?”  
Do I know him? No shit I know him.   
“Yes, that is my obnoxious, irritating, annoying, petulant-“ The guard began to lead John down a hallway, but let the tirade continue.  
“-irresponsible, whinging, bitchy, idiotic, genius of a father!” John spotted a small cell with a lone stool and a small cot behind the bars. Sherlock lay on the cot, supine.  
“Enigmatic.” Sherlock murmured.  
“What was that, eh?” The guard barked, dislike showing obviously in his tone.  
In his defense, Sherlock was probably being worse than normal, all cooped up. John though half-heartedly.  
“Enigmatic!” Sherlock exclaimed, leaping catlike off the cot and clapped his pale hands together. “John, how could you forget enigmatic!?”  
“I didn’t forget, I chose to exclude.” A small, pouty look crossed Sherlock’s face before vanishing as quickly as it appeared. John flashed a cheeky grin.  
The guard cleared his throat.  
“What!” Sherlock snapped, eager to escape the cell.  
“That’ll be a ‘undred fifty quid.”   
“WHAT?!” John’s eyes went wide, before he sighed and turned to Sherlock. “I’m assuming you don’t have enough cash?” Sherlock nodded in affirmation and John swore softly under his breath.  
“Here,” John counted out all but one bill from Mycroft’s wallet and thrust it into the guard’s outstretched hand. The guard quickly re-counted the bills before pocketing it and unlocking the cell door, allowing Sherlock to stride out with a smirk.  
“I only have ten quid left, you need to hit an ATM.” John said, tucking Mycroft’s wallet back into his pocket.  
“Not an issue.” Sherlock smiled broadly and led John out of the security office, back into the mall, a guiding hand on John’s thin shoulder as Sherlock tapped away on his mobile.  
“OI!” John protested, turning about in Sherlock’s grip as they speeded past an ATM. He grabbed Sherlock’s forearm and practically dragged him to the machine and handed Sherlock his credit card.  
“I forgot to get this back to you.”  
“How’d you pay?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.  
“The other day you went to the bank machine and I saw you punch the code in…” John took a slight step back. Ignoring John’s minute retreat, Sherlock beamed, a full grin spreading across his face.  
“Brilliant!”  
“Sorry, what? It’s brilliant that I read your PIN? That lets me access your money?”  
“YES! Exactly!” Sherlock swiped his card and punched the aforementioned PIN in, ruffling John’s hair with his free hand. The bills were spat out quickly and Sherlock handed a stack to John.  
“Sherlock, this is… way more than you owe me.”  
“So? You spotted my PIN!” Giddy, Sherlock led John the rest of the way out of the shopping mall, whistled to a taxicab and threw himself in in less than five minutes.  
“Where are we going?” John asked after he settled himself into the seat, popping his hood up once again.  
“Scotland Yard. We are seeing if Lestrade’s got a more interesting case. Pssh, the last one was child’s play. You could’ve solved it with ease!”  
“Thanks…?”  
The rest of the cab ride passed along quietly with both John and Sherlock tapping at their mobiles. Sherlock leaned over and plucked the iPhone from John’s hands, ignoring the protests. Soon enough he handed it back and John eyed it suspiciously.  
“What’d you do?”  
“I blocked your internet access.” Sherlock said, his face blank.  
“WHAT?!” John roared, immediately opening the internet application.  
“No, you little idiot,” Sherlock said almost affectionately. “I added my number, what else would I do? I have no desire to play that ridiculous game you insist on playing with squawking birds.”  
“It’s fun!” John insisted, gaze shifting from his phone to his father’s face.  
“Never mind that, we’re here.” Sherlock halted the cab and climbed out as John shuffled behind him.

“Freak!” Sally Donovan greeted. John’s easy going smile turned into a frown.  
“He’s not a freak.”   
“What?” Sally noticed John trailing behind Sherlock. “Where’d you pick up the kid?”  
“Don’t call him the kid.” Sherlock snapped. “This is my son, John Watson.”  
“What?! You! You… reproduced?!”   
“Obviously. I am a fully functioning human being, even if it’s all transport.” Sherlock gave a devilish smile. “Are you going to let us in or not, Sally?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just part one. It'd be longer but I wanted to upload and I have a headache. Comment and Love peoples! It makes me inspired!

**Author's Note:**

> Jesus, this was a long one! Hope you enjoyed, and please rate and review it. Vote, do whatever it’s called and comment!!! Expect an update soon enough.


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